Let Loose the Dogs of War
by Tawnykit
Summary: [on hiatus] AU. In a world torn apart by civil war, only two things remain clear: there's an us, and there's a them.
1. Prelude: The Storm

Disclaimer: I do not own _Yu Gi Oh!_. I do own this story, my few OCs, and the twisted world in which this all takes place. I doubt you would want to steal any of that, but if you do, prepare for Doom and I to sue you.

A/N: Warnings: Rated for violence (mainly that), swearing, and some light (note the light) romance. This story is AU (alternate universe). If you don't like that, leave.

Let's get this show on the road!

* * *

Dark clouds covered the full moon, turning what might otherwise be a bright, cheerful summer's night into a malevolent shadow. A lone figure stood on the rooftops, reveling in the feeling of the storm to come. 

A small wind blew up, revealing the moon for a moment. It shown down on a tall building, identical to its companions in size and shape, if not in purpose.

The figure smirked as the moon was once more covered and the building was wrapped in darkness again. That building, unbeknownst to the multitude of people who worked inside it, was his target. He fingered the straps to the pack that lay across his back, mentally sizing up the building and checking that the explosives he had brought would be enough. His superiors had assured him that they would be more than sufficient to destroy not only his target, but a great deal of the surrounding neighborhood as well, if he wasn't careful. It was always best to be sure, however. If he had learned anything in all his years doing these missions, it was to never trust anything you hadn't done yourself.

His smirk grew as he finished his mental precautions. He had enough, and he knew just where to place them to cause the most damage.

The first crack of thunder tore apart the night sky as the figure finally left the rooftop, ready to begin his mission.

The storm was upon them.


	2. Revolution Calling

Disclaimer: I do not own _Yu Gi Oh!_. I like to pretend I do, but unfortunately, I don't. I also do not own the song by Queensrÿche _Revolution Calling_, which this chapter is named after.

A/N: The purpose of this chapter, other than setting up for the next one (which sets up for the rest of the story) is to give you a vague idea of what this world – or at least the war – is like. So it's still a bit short. Work with me here; it'll get longer.

If you find it confusing, good. It's supposed to be for a while.

* * *

"In other news, yet another rebel attack has led to the destruction of the KC Research Facility in Osaka, Japan. The base, a site of major scientific discoveries since it was founded over thirty years ago, exploded early this morning. The person responsible has not yet been identified. The police have–" 

The ten-year-old boy turned the news report off, smirking. Seto's mission had been successful, it seemed. Not that he had had any doubt that it would. His brother _never_ failed.

Mokuba sighed, running a hand through his long, messy black hair. His smirk faded to a look of worry. He hated it when Seto was away on a mission. It wasn't the missions themselves that he disliked, but while he understood their importance in freeing the world from the totalitarian dictators who currently ruled, anything could happen to the agents chosen to carry them out. His brother could be injured, captured, or even killed, and there wouldn't be a thing he could do about it.

It would be different if he could accompany his brother. His facial expression changed once more, this time to a scowl. He had the training, and he had been through more mock battles and practice missions than he cared to recall at the time. He was one of the best in his age group, and he had never been able to understand why he always had to remain on the sidelines.

But all that was different now. He had turned ten last week, scant days before his brother had been called away to his latest assignment, the destruction of the Kaiba Corporation's Research Facility in Osaka. That was the age that most agents were assigned their first mission.

Hr brightened at that thought. Seto wouldn't be going alone next time, he was sure.

He shook his head, amazed that the older boy had managed to escape a partner before now. Very few agents worked alone. Most were assigned partners that they would work with for the rest of their lives. These partnerships were considered almost sacred bonds, and the pair involved was always very close. Only two things could separate them. The first was the end of the war. When – if – it was finally resolved, there would be no more need for missions.

The second was death.

Mokuba steered his mind away from that train of thought. He refused to acknowledge the very real possibility that was his brother might someday share the same fate as hundreds of agents before him.

He was fairly certain that the only reason Seto had yet to be paired was because their superiors, either through observation or conversation (he wouldn't put it past the older boy to walk up to General Pegasus himself and make his opinions known) were aware that the young agent would, under no circumstances, allow his little brother to be partnered with anyone save himself. He had certainly assured Mokuba on many occasions that, when the time came, they would work together.

His thoughts were interrupted by a series of beeps, followed by a loud whooshing noise: the sounds of someone entering the keycode into the pad on the wall outside and opening the door. Other than Mokuba, only one person knew the correct code to disengage the locking mechanism and allow them entrance to the apartment. The boy beamed, turning around to face the door as a tall figure stepped inside.

Seto was home.

"Big brother!" The raven-haired child cried out in delight, his worries banished for a time. "You're back!"

"Of course I am, Mokuba," the fifteen-year-old replied with a small smile. "Don't tell me you were worried, kid."

Mokuba ran forward, embracing his beloved brother. "I always worry when you're away on a mission," he said, the words coming out slightly muffled from against Seto's shoulder. "Something could happen, and I'd wouldn't even know it!"

"Not going to happen, kid," Seto reassured him.

"But how can you be _sure_?"

"Mokuba, I'm _S4913_." The brunette put extra stress on his official registration number. Despite his young age, that number was one of the more well-known in the force; he was, after all, one of the best. "It's not going to happen."

Mokuba hung his head. Many might take his brother's words, which he knew had been only half in jest, for arrogance, but he knew better. Seto had every right to be proud. "I know, Seto, I know. It's just… you're good, Seto. Everyone knows that. But you're not invincible." He sniffed. "I'd feel better if I could come with you. At least then I'd know what's happening."

Seto eyed him. "That's true," he agreed. He hesitated before adding, "You know, Mokuba… You're old enough now to start accompanying me. You've had enough training."

Mokuba smiled. He did know that, but it still felt good to hear his older brother say it. "You think so?"

Seto nodded. "Yes. I've been keeping track of your progress, little brother. You're been ready for a long time."

Mokuba's smile grew. Seto didn't give compliments easily.

"Tell you what, kid. I need to report to HQ later anyway." It was standard procedure that all agents report to headquarters after completing a mission. There they would inform the head of their division about all that had transpired during their assignment. "We'll request that you be added to the team then."

"You mean it?" Mokuba squeaked. He could hardly believe it, but he knew that Seto was telling the truth. The older boyrarely joked, especially about something like this.

"Of course," Seto confirmed unnecessarily. "Right now though, kid, I want to take a shower."

Mokuba gave him one last hug before stepping back and allowing him to enter the apartment that the two brothers shared, alone save for each other.

Seto followed him inside, walking over to the couch in the center of the room. The couch, along with a table, two chairs, a lamp, the holographic TV generator, and a single cabinet containing a game of old fashioned chess made up the boys' sparse living quarters. They didn't even have beds; they slept on mattresses on the floor. All in all, the small apartment had only two rooms, excluding a closet and bathroom: the combination living room/kitchen unit where they now stood and a shared bedroom.

Seto sat on the couch with a sigh. He looked tired, Mokuba noticed. He always did when he returned from a mission.

The older boy slung his pack from his shoulders and unclipped his belt from around his waist. He carefully laid them out on the couch, then stretched and stood. Mokuba knew from long experience that after Seto had showered, each piece of equipment would be carefully examined, cleaned, and assessed for even the tiniest of flaws. Broken gear could cost an agent his life, and S4913 never took any chances.

As Seto made his way to the bedroom door – the bathroom could only be reached by going through the bedroom – Mokuba sank down onto the spot he had vacated on the couch, staring dreamily into space. Seto paused at the door, turning back to look at him.

"Kid?"

Mokuba jerked, realizing he'd been spoken to. "Hm?"

He met his brother's piercing blue gaze and knew what he wanted before the other could even speak.

"I was just thinking about the missions," he answered the unspoken question. "I can't believe I'm finally gonna get to come with you. I mean, I know they're dangerous, but the somehow I can't help felling excited. I finally get to make a difference, you know?"

Seto gave him a grave nod. "There's a revolution calling, little brother."

Mokuba smiled determinedly. "And I'll answer."

He was surprised to see sadness flicker across the ice blue eyes, but then the young rebel smirked. "No, little brother," Seto said, turning to open the door. "_We_ will answer."

* * *

A/N: No, Seto is not the president of Kaiba Corp. in this story. It's an AU, remember? So don't flame me saying, "OMG, you baka, why would Seto blow up his own building!" or some such silly nonsense. I told you, if you don't like AU, go away. 

I despise begging, but I will anyway: leave a review before you go?


	3. And We Will Answer

Disclaimer: If I owned it… trust me. You would know. I do own my OC, though. He's mine; you can't have him. (stubborn look)

A/N: If you've never played chess before (I pity you, if you haven't) the phrase "check" means that the king is in take – that a piece is threatening it. "Checkmate" means that the king is in check and that there is no way for its player to back out. Checkmate ends the game, because when the king is dead, it's game over. If you need further explanations, feel free to ask.

* * *

Sergeant Major Kerrick looked at his top agent in puzzlement. Though the boy was only fifteen years old, his impressive height of six-foot-one forced the officer to look up to meet his gaze. According to a recent x-ray in his medical file, which clearly showed that his growth plates had yet to disappear, the boy would get even taller before he was finished. 

It was a running joke among other divisions that the best agent in the Domino City branch was just a boy. Then again, none of them had seen him in action. Kerrick had, and he trusted the boy to do his job and do it well.

That wasn't what had him puzzled at the moment. That was all fact; he had acknowledged it as such some time ago.

What the sergeant major couldn't understand was the small boy who stood slightly behind the agent, grey eyes wide as he looked about him, taking in his surroundings. Children – or anyone but a registered officer or agent – were not allowed in this section of the division's headquarters.

Whatever the reason for the breach in protocol, Kerrick was sure he would soon find out. And whatever it was, it could wait until business had been completed. "S4913, welcome home. I trust everything went according to plan?"

"Yes, sir," the agent replied stoically.

"Any trouble?"

"No, sir. I met little resistance. They were taken by surprise."

Kerrick raised his eyebrows. "Interesting. I would have thought such an important facility would have been more heavily guarded."

"It was heavily guarded," S4913 said calmly. "Guards only do you good if they catch the intruder."

Kerrick gave a dark chuckle. The boy had a point. "Nothing further to report?"

"No, sir. Everything went smoothly."

"Good. Well done, S4913."

"Thank you, sir." The reply was routine politeness towards his superior; it was impossible to tell from his facial expression whether he really felt gratitude or not. Knowing S4913, Kerrick guessed not.

"Very well. If there's nothing else…" He trailed off, brown eyes shifting to settle on the child. His words had been a dismissal, but he didn't expect the agent to leave – and S4913 knew it.

The tall brunette stood at attention, and the raven-haired boy followed his example.

"S4913?" Kerrick raided his eyebrows again, waiting.

"Sir. This is M7132… my brother."

"Ah." Now the officer understood. He distinctly remembered the day S4913 had confronted him, telling him in no uncertain terms that he would stand for no partner save his brother. Any other agent would have found themselves demoted before they could say "insubordination." Not S4913.

"He just turned ten," S4913 added unnecessarily.

"And you think him ready for a position?"

"Yes, sir. Read his file; he's the best in his age group."

"Well, M7132." Kerrick assessed the boy. He was small for his age, not showing any of his brother's height. That, however, could be to his advantage on a mission. "That's quite high praise, coming from S4913… even if he is your brother."

"Thank you, sir," the boy responded. He kept his eyes straight ahead as he had been taught.

"What do you have to say for yourself, boy?"

M7132 hesitated. When his reply came, it was slow, but firm and steady. "Sir… I'm ready."

"Brave words, M7132. I hope you come to prove them." He turned to S4913. "I will look into his file and see that there are no complications. Assuming that there are none, he will receive a contract on the morrow. Do you have anything further to add?"

"No, sir," S4913 replied.

"Very well. Dismissed."

The boys saluted, turned, and left the room.

Sergeant Major Kerrick watched them leave, eyes fixed on the back of the new recruit. The dark skinned man stroked his chin thoughtfully. He had high hopes for this M7132. He had reminded the officer of S4913 at that age – and S4913 was the best Domino City had to offer. If his brother was half as good, the Revolution had just gained another top agent. Perhaps this rebellion wasn't so hopeless after all.

* * *

"Seto, what did he mean? Complications?" 

"Don't worry about it. It doesn't apply to you." Seto's voice was calm, firm, and apparently emotionless. But appearances could be deceiving, and Mokuba thought he could detect a hint of pride in his tone.

"But then why–"

Seto interrupted him. "It's standard procedure. HQ runs a background check on all new agents. You won't have any problems. It's your move, by the way."

Mokuba frowned, concentrating on the black and white game pieces in front of him. The two boys sat at the table in their living room, the old chess board in between them. Up two knights and a queen, Seto was in the lead. That wasn't surprising; Seto always won.

Slowly, Mokuba moved his only bishop – both brothers had lost one some time earlier – forward to take one of Seto's pawns. "Check. What type of things are they looking for?"

"Past criminal records, any possible connections to the other side, things like that. We have to be careful, little brother. Are you sure you want to do that?" The last referred to the bishop's movement.

"Um…" Mokuba double-checked the position of all of the pieces. There wasn't anything that could take it… "Yeah… What would happen if they found something?"

Seto shrugged in regard to the game, moving his rook forward one space so that it lay in between Mokuba's bishop and his own king. "That depends on how bad the offense is. For minor things, they would probably put the suspected on probation. For a major offense…" He shrugged again. "We can't risk traitors escaping, kid."

Mokuba swallowed. He knew what Seto meant. "They'd do that?" He didn't understand how someone could just kill a person who _might_ be in the way.

He also didn't understand his brother's chess move. Wouldn't it have been better to move his king, instead of sacrificing his rook? The younger boy moved his bishop, taking the rook and once more threatening the king. "Check again."

Seto nodded grimly. "Yes, they would," he answered his brother's question. "_Anyone_ who gets in the way of the cause must be terminated." He picked up his queen, moving it backwards to take the bishop. "Checkmate."

Mokuba's eyes widened. Where had the queen come from? He looked at his king, who now lay in the direct path of his brother's queen. The king was boxed in… he couldn't move. Seto had won the game.

Seto picked up the rook he had sacrificed, holding it out to the small boy. "We're expendable to them, Mokuba. We all are. They don't care about us; they say they do, but they don't. Don't trust them. Always be on guard. Don't let yourself become my rook here."

Mokuba reached forward, touching the rook, but not taking it. Grey eyes met blue, and the raven-haired child nodded. "I understand."

"Good." Seto watched him for a moment more, then nodded. "I'll put this away; you go get ready for bed."

"Okay." Mokuba stood, trotting around to his brother's side of the table to give him a hug. "G'night, big brother."

Seto returned the embrace. "Good night. I'll be in in a minute."

"'Kay." Mokuba smiled and disappeared into the bedroom.

Seto sat back in his chair, the rook still held loosely in his hand. He stroked it absently with his thumb, staring into space.

Slowly, his fist closed around the white, castle-like gamepiece. He wouldn't let it happen to his brother. He had promised to protect him, back before they had been caught up in this whole damn war. The situations may have changed now, but a promise was a promise.

S4913 _always_ kept his promises.

* * *

Mokuba stirred as a bright ray of sunlight shone in his face, trying to drag him away from the depths of sleep. He gave a mumbled, incoherent complaint, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow in attempt to go back to sleep. 

Once he had awakened, however, he found it difficult to return to his dreams. Sighing, he sat up and gave the window a disapproving glare.

Seto was always complaining about the window, though for a different reason than Mokuba was at the moment. The fifteen-year-old agent claimed that it was dangerous to have an external window in a time of war. It would be too easy for an enemy agent to slip inside if ever their identities were discovered. A sniper would find them an easy target if perched on one of the opposite rooftops. They had to take what they could get, however. Housing space wasn't easy to come by in this day and age.

Right now, Mokuba wasn't concerned about enemy assassins or snipers. He was just disgruntled that he had been aroused.

Still grumbling about his rude awakening, the ten-year-old climbed to his feet, stretched, and glanced over at his brother's mattress. It was abandoned, the blankets neatly folded at its foot. Seto was already awake.

Following the older boy's example, Mokuba folded his own blankets, then stumbled out of the bedroom.

Seto sat at the table, a plate of pancakes in front of him. He looked up as Mokuba came into the room. He nodded at the boy. "Good morning."

"Morning," Mokuba yawned. He eyed his brother's breakfast, noting another plate on the counter. They didn't have food like that very often.

Seto noticed the look. His face relaxed into an almost-smile. "I thought we should celebrate a little," he explained.

"Thanks!" Mokuba exclaimed, eagerly grabbing a knife, fork, and his plate and sitting down across from his brother. His eyes widened as the brunette offered him a chipped dish with a brownish liquid in it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even _seen_ maple syrup, though he knew what it was. "Where'd you get that?" he asked, accepting the dish and dipping his finger into its contents.

"I pulled a few strings down in the supplies department." Seto smirked as Mokuba tasted the gooey substance that now coated his finger.

Mokuba's eyes widened in delight; he quickly drenched his breakfast in syrup. "Thanks," he chirped again, and began to dig into his now very sticky meal.

"You earned it." Seto watched him eat for a moment, then stood and walked over to the couch. He came back with something in his hand.

Mokuba glanced up. "What's that?"

"Your contract."

The younger boy froze, his eyes going wide.

"…And when you finish eating, you can have it."

Mokuba stuck his tongue out at him, then went back to wolfing down his breakfast.

When he had licked his plate clean of the last drop of syrup and the final crumbs of pancake, he scrambled to his feet and stood at attention at Seto's side.

The tall brunette smirked, leaning back in his chair teasingly. "Your hands."

"What about them?" Mokuba blinked, glancing down at the offending limbs.

"They're sticky. Wash them. What kind of impression do you think it would make if you got syrup on such an important document?

The ten-year-old released a frustrated moan as he turned and sprinted through the bedroom to the bathroom. His hands received the quickest, most thorough washing they ever had, and in no time at all, Mokuba was back at his brother's side.

"Read it carefully," Seto advised, handing it to him. Make sure there's nothing unpleasant in the fine print."

Mokuba read the document excitedly. There wasn't much to read. He was to understand that he was now responsible for furthering the rebel cause. He must be willing to sacrifice life, limb, and freedom for that cause, and for his future partner, who would be assigned at a later time. Traitors would be punished, no exceptions. While his new position brought new responsibilities, it also brought rewards. He now had access to the various lounges, resources, computers, and other recreational and informational devices available to all agents. Following the completion of his first mission, he would be a trusted member of the Domino City division. He would receive a (small) salary, to be raised or lowered based on performance. He was to sign his registration number, thus swearing his fealty and sealing the deal.

"…It looks fine to me," he said, lifting his eyes from the paper.

"You're sure?"

Mokuba looked up at the tone in his brother's voice. It somehow contained sadness, exhaustion, worry, and yet its usual calmness all at the same time.

"You're absolutely sure?" the older boy asked again. "This is what you want? There's no going back once you sign your number on that paper, Mokuba. You're stuck for life. _Are you sure_?"

The raven-haired child frowned. He _was_ sure, but it seemed important to Seto that he think about it. Would it be something he would regret someday? Maybe. He wondered if Seto ever regretted his own decision to join. Probably. Was it worth it anyway?

Yes.

"...I'm sure," he said, meeting his brother's gaze.

"…Very well." The fifteen-year-old rebel agent extended a pen to him, and Mokuba took it with trembling fingers. Carefully, in his neatest handwriting, he printed his registration number in the indicated spaces, then signed and dated the document at the bottom. The paper copy would be taken to headquarters, photocopied, and scanned into a computer. The original would stay at their division's headquarters; the photocopy would be sent to the main base in Kyoto, the capital of the Revolution; and the digital copy would be stored in the database, to be accessed as needed from any computer that had the proper codes.

Finished, Mokuba set aside the pen, blowing on the ink to dry it. "Done," he whispered.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up at Seto's face. "Begun," the older boy corrected gently. "Welcome to the Revolution, little brother."


	4. Solo

Disclaimer: I don't own _Yu Gi Oh!_. I do own this story, the weirdo-world it takes place in, and my OCs. They're _mine_, and you can't have them!

* * *

Mokuba's heart hammered in his chest, and his stomach clenched with nervous energy. This was it; he had just handed Sergeant Major Kerrick his contract. His signing of the document had sealed his end of the deal, but it hadn't been official until now.

Seto stood in an at ease position at the younger boy's side, watching him out of the corner of his eyes. His face was grim; Mokuba wondered if he was thinking of when he had been in this position.

He quickly focused on the sergeant major again, resisting the urge to fidget under the dark man's gaze.

The officer spoke, looking up from the document in his hands. "Everything appears to be in order. You will partner him, of course, S4913."

"Yes sir," Seto replied.

"Very well. Welcome to the Domino City task force, M7123." A large, dark hand was offered to him, dwarfing the boy's own small, pale limb.

And, just like that, it was done – or, as Seto had said, begun. In a way, it was almost a letdown. There were no ceremonies, no presentations, no one there save Seto, Kerrick, and himself.

The next few minutes passed Mokuba by in a dazing blur of orders, mostly directed at Seto. Later, when he tried to recall what had transpired, only one phrase would really stand out.

"M7123," – he had stood at attention upon hearing the officer speak his number – "your first assignment will be an attack on an enemy supplies warehouse. Details will be sent to you later this day. Good luck…"

* * *

Mokuba crouched next to a large crate, holding his breath as a uniformed guard slowly patrolled by, unaware of the young rebel hidden not three feet to his left.

The boybreathed a light sigh of relief ashe escaped the enemy soldier's gaze.He didn't want to get into a fight unless he had to.

Carefully, he poked his head around the corner of the crate, making sure the way was clear. His infrared goggles detected several heat sources – guards – in the distance, but none were close enough to notice the black-clothed agent.

_One… Two… Three!_ he counted off mentally. On "three," he dashed forward, ducking and weaving across the open ground to avoid being seen. He slipped behind another crate, bringing him one step closer to his goal. Pausing for a breath, he took stock of his situation.

He was down at the Domino docks, by the harbor. The smells of saltwater and decaying fish assaulted his nose, a scent which he was never certain if he liked or not. His target was warehouse number thirty-three, a small, dilapidated building that was supposed a cover-up for the biggest enemy supplies depot in the region. He was to slip inside, set the explosives he had brought, and slip out again.

Seto was not with him. An agent's first mission was always done solo, to see how they could think and work by themselves. He was on his own.

It was time to press on. The warehouse was just in front of him, looming over him like a jeering, malevolent phantom, taunting the small boy who dared to tread near it. Moving as quickly and quietly as possible, keeping an eye out for the ever present, ever patrolling guards, he dashed forward.

He reached the shadow of the building and drew up close to the wall, holding his breath as another sentry patrolled by. The straight-backed figure walked by unknowing, and Mokuba released another relieved sigh. He was safe, for now.

According to his briefing, the only way into the warehouse was through the front door. Mokuba had hoped to bypass that by finding a weak spot in the wall and breaking through, but a closer inspection of the apparently rotting wooden siding proved it to be much stronger than it looked. His lip twisted into a wry smile; he should have known it was only a ruse. The enemy was taking no chances.

He thought enviously of a piece of his brother's equipment, a small laser that would have made quick work of the warehouse's walls. Supplies were limited, however. Such devices were reserved for top agents, not new recruits.

He ran over the things he did have: a standard commission blaster (model KC957) sat in a holster on his hip; the infrared goggles covered his eyes; a pack of time-activated explosives, to be placed in strategic places inside the warehouse, could be found in the pack slung over his shoulders; a rope and grappling hook were attached to a harness around his waist; and a set of hallucinatory darts were clipped to his belt.

He recalled what the girl in the supplies department had told him about those darts. According to her, a single dart had enough drugs in it to keep a grown man unaware for a good ten minutes, though it took just as long to activate. Mokuba had been fascinated by how the drug had worked. It made its way from wherever it was injected straight to the brain and began its work from there, delving into its prey's most recent memories and creating a simulation that tricked the brain into thinking that the victim's surrounding's hadn't changed. Anyone under its influence would notice nothing new – such as, say, a small rebel boy sneaking past them. Furthermore, there were no outward changes to the victim's appearance; anyone looking at them wouldn't be able to tell that anything was wrong.

Unfortunately, that fact had its disadvantages as well. While other guards wouldn't know to sound the alert, Mokuba wouldn't be able to tell when the drug kicked in and when it wore off. It was a gamble, but he was certain he could make it work.

The mission details he had been given had said that the front door was guarded by only a single enemy soldier. Mokuba had a pack of ten darts. It was the perfect opportunity to try them out.

Slowly, he began to creep in the direction of the door, hugging the wall as he circled the building. He was wary of enemy soldiers patrolling around him, and he froze several times for fear of being discovered. He reached his destination without any mishaps, however.

The rebel crouched in the shadows of the building. The guard stood alone, ramrod-straight, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He stared directly ahead, looking neither left nor right; Mokuba could have stepped out of the shadows and he wouldn'tbe noticed. Hypothetically, of course – the boy didn't want to take any chances.

Moving slowly, his hand dropped down to the pack of darts on is belt. He freed the blowpipe used to launch the small missiles first, then reached for the darts themselves. He handled them cautiously; the sharp needles would easily pierce his leather-gloved hand if he made a mistake.

Still moving with the utmost care and precision, Mokuba slid one of the darts into the pipe and raised it to his lips. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the air necessary to propel the dart across the distance to its intended target, waited another second while he aimed, and fired.

The little dart flew straight and true, speeding silently through the air until it was met with resistance in the form of the lone watchman's arm. The guard felt it pierce his flesh, but brushed it off as some kind of nasty biting insect intent on drinking his blood. He did not turn his head; Mokuba remained unnoticed.

The young rebel returned the blowpipe and the remaining darts to his belt. So far, so good. Now all he could do was wait.

There would be no way to tell when the little dart's poison would take affect. A swift glance at the chronometer on his wrist put the time at 3:09 am. He decided to give the drug twelve minutes to kick in: the necessary ten plus two, just to be safe. That would leave him with approximately eight minutes to get through the door; more than enough time. The raven-haired child settled in to wait.

He was a little worried as to what he would find inside. The rebels had been unable to get a scout inside the building; all of their spies were occupied with more important tasks.

He supposed he would have to handle that he came to it. He had been taught the best places to set his explosives in a structure such as this; he would have to trust the rest of his training, as well.

Call him paranoid, but he hated relying on things. He had probably picked that up from his brother.

He looked at his chronometer again, just in time to see the digital numbers change from 3:20 to 3:21. It was time.

The young boy drew in a breath to calm his quaking nerves, looked around him to be sure no other guards were in the near proximity, and stepped out of the shadows. He approached the motionless guard, his steps gaining confidence as the man paid him no heed. When he reached the entrance he reached around the soldier, his gloved hand touching the doorpad. He didn't think it would be locked; he severely hoped it wouldn't be. He didn't think he would have enough time to hotwire it before the drug wore off or another guard came by.

The pod glowed upon contact with this hand. A soft beep was heardand – to Mokuba's extreme relief – the door slid open. He was in.

He hurriedly stepped inside, drawing his blaster as the door slid shut behind him. He let his left leg collapse underneath him, dropping to the ground and rolling over his shoulder as he had been taught. Long hours spent studying, practicing, training, learning, leapt unbidden into his mind. Anyone watching the door would have seen him enter. He must not present a target; he must keep moving until all foes could be eliminated.

His roll had brought himnext toa pile of boxes stacked precariously against the wall. He crouched beside them, muscles tense, gun at ready, prepared for anything.

Nothing happened. There was no one there.

He sagged against the wall in relief. He should have expected this. The Revolution's main supplies warehouse had been much the same, with few guards and few important goods on the first level. His real task would come in the lower, guarded levels.

First things first: he would be racing against time on his way out, trying to escape before the explosives detonated. He wouldn't have time to stop and set anything on this floor later. He would have to do it now.

He had been supplied with fifteen explosives; assuming that this warehouse was similar to the Revolution's in size as well as design, there would be three floors below this one. He could spare three explosives here and set four on each of the other levels.

He slung the pack gently down to the ground, sliding his blaster into its holster as he dug around for one the detonators. He stared at the disk for a moment, working up the nerve to set it.

It was small, made of a dull grey metal; it easily fit into his child-sized hands. The screen on its surface was dark now; when activated, it would display numbers, counting down the seconds until destruction. It was almost like it was sleeping, like a lion on the sun. It was hard to believe that something so innocent-looking could be so dangerous, but, like the lion, the bomb couldn't sleep forever.

And it was Mokuba's job to wake it up.

Through an act of sheer willpower, the boy forced his trembling hands to clamp the detonator onto the wall next to the door. The device automatically leapt to life; with a soft, almost inaudible beeping, the numbers began a preset, glowing countdown to a door into Hell. 1:30:00… 1:29:59…

He had ninety minutes to complete his task and vacate the premises. When that time was up, all fifteen of the mines, connected to each other by the same system, would detonate. He could spare fifteen minutes on each level; that would give him half an hour to make his way out of the warehouse and to get to a safe distance away from the soon to be death zone.

He had best get started.

* * *

A/N: Next chapter we get our first real action scene. I know I've been very descriptive in these first few chapters, and I hope I haven't bored anyone. I'm just trying to make this world clear to y'all.

See you next chapter!


	5. Rule Number Three

Disclaimer: Following the example of someone very wise, I am sending my ninjas to law school. Perhaps when they because _lawyer_ ninjas I'll have better success at gaining the rights to _Yu Gi Oh!_? Until such time, I'm satisfied with my fanfiction.

A/N: We get introduced to another character in this chapter. Not saying who. However, take note of this: the events that happen here are not setting up for next chapter. Nor are they setting up for the chapter after that, the one after that, or _even_ the one after that. In fact, after this chapter is done, they bare no relevancy to the rest of the story. So don't get your hopes up.

Why did I include them, then? Two reasons. One: I listen to most of my whims. Two? There's this sequel I'm planning, you see… And I could tell you about it, but then I'd have to kill you. Or have my ninjas kill you, once they graduate from law school.

This is my first time _ever_ writing any kind of fight scene that is more than, say, half a page long. Any advice you can offer is most welcome.

I have also raised the rating on this fic from T (PG-13) to M (R). If this chapter doesn't warrant it, than I have no doubt one of the next ones will.

Caorann, because you keep asking, the numbers: Mokuba's was totally and completely random, as are most of the others to come. There are certain guidelines which will be explained later in the story itself, but other than that, I had nothing prior in mind when deciding on them.

Seto, though, I had a reason behind. One of the Japanese words for four, _shi_, has a double meaning of "death." Now tell me, how many lives does a cat have?

And boys and girls, what does four plus nine equal?

Are there any triskaidekaphobiacs in the crowd that can tell us what thirteen is supposed to mean?

And that, dear friends, is how you get S(first letter of his name, of course)4913.

On a totally and completely unrelated note, whoa! We just lost power. Neat. I get to type by candle light. Fun!

* * *

There were four of them. They sat around a rickety card table, gambling their wages away. One of them was obviously drunk; the stench of hard liquor was evident even from a distance. Only he and one of his sober comrades had weapons close to hand. A single rifle – belonging to one of the other two men – leaned against the far wall. The fourth had no visible weapong. All four were smoking; a tobacco-laden haze filled the room, smoke from their cigars. They were focused on their card game; a bomb could have gone off under their feet and no one would have been the wiser. It was clear that no one was expecting an attack.

Rule number three of fighting a war – right after "death before surrender" and "never betray your partner" – was "expect the unexpected."

His first shot struck the drunkard in the back of his head; the silencer on his KC957 made a muffled clicking as he pulled the trigger. The guard slid down in his chair, dead before he hit the ground.

His second shot blew the arm off the other armed guard, hitting him in the shoulder before he could bring his own weapon to bear. The man screamed, clutching the bleeding stump. Their attacker winced and shot him in the chest, both to silence him and as a mercy stroke.

By this time, the other two guards were one their feet. The one closest to the wall the rifles leaned against had grabbed his weapon, while his companion dropped to his knees to make himself less of a target.

The rebel frowned at this. The guard was up to something, he was sure. He couldn't think of what–

The heart stopping sound of the other guard's rifle being fired, accompanied by a sharp pain across his cheek, reminded him that he didn't have the time to puzzle over such things. He snapped his attention back to the now cursing rifleman, who was desperately reloading his weapon.

The rebel lifted his blaster, ignoring the slight trembling in his hand – he must not think of how close he had just come to losing his life – and shot his enemy dead in the chest.

He had no time to savor his victory, however. The sound of pounding footsteps rapidly approaching him reached his ears, and he turned to face his next opponent.

The guard who had been on his knees a moment before was bearing down on him, a knife flashing in his hand. The rebel gulped. His small build gave him a huge disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat, but the man was upon him before he could bring his gun to bear.

He stumbled backwards, dodging a sideways jab at his head. His momentum sent him falling to the ground, a most undesirable position in his present circumstance. He automatically broke into a roll, carrying him away from his attacker.

It was lucky for him that he did. The guard swooped in on him, slashing furiously with his blade. The young rebel had nothing to fight him with; he had not been supplied with a knife. All he could do was continue to roll, dodging the rapid attacks.

It wasn't until he actually hit it that he realized his roll had sent him on a collision course with the card table, somehow still standing in the center of the hallway despite the flurry of activity around it. His impact against one of the chairs resulted in a domino effect, knocking over chair, table, and subsequently the rest of the chairs before something soft and relatively yielding stopped him. The entire mess collapsed in a cloud of cards, gambling chips, dust, and wood, most of it landing on top of him.

He lay still underneath the board that had been the tabletop (its legs had been knocked off in the fall), shuddering and trying to catch his breath. He didn't think his opponent would risk coming after him, digging through the debris and waiting for him to leap free. More likely, the man would wait for him to free himself and ambush him before he had his bearings.

He decided to take advantage of the brief respite. He needed to find a makeshift weapon, and he knew just the thing to use. His eyes, which had been squeezed shut, opened, and he looked around him, searching for a table leg or a piece of a chair which he could use as a club. He smiled as he found the perfect piece, grasping it in his right hand.

Suddenly he froze. His left hand, which had also been groping about him in his search, had brushed against something that felt strangely like cloth. He blinked, recalling that his roll had eventually been stopped by something much softer than the hard tables and chairs. Slowly, he turned his head, wondering what it was.

He nearly screamed at what he found. It was the body of the first soldier, who had slumped to the ground after the rebel's bullet had ended his life.

The young rebel stifled a scream only half successfully. Completely forgetting where he was, he threw himself away from the corpse, bursting free of the rubble and stagger blindly backwards.

The enemy guard greeted him with open arms – literally. The rebel found himself engulfed in a stranglehold, one of his foe's arms pinning his own limbs to his side while the other wrapped around his neck, cutting off his air supply.

He struggled in vain for a moment before he realized that he had somehow had enough sense to hold onto the table leg he had found prior to his discovery of the soldier's body. He reacted instinctively, his right wrist flicking to slam the shaft into his captor's kneecap.

The man shouted, dropping his prisoner and clutching his knee, releasing a string of obscenities. The rebel quickly back away from him, leveling the table leg at him in preparation for his next attack.

The enemy guard glared at him, tentatively placing his weight on his injured led. Redrawing his knife, which he had sheathed during his attempt to strangle the boy, he ran it in a menacing mime across his throat, his intentions clear.

They began to circle each other, searching for openings in the other's stance. It was the soldier who made the first move, the deadly blade arcing towards the rebel's stomach. He leapt backwards, not wanting to block and risk his only weapon being hacked in two. Unlike his previous attempt to dodge, however, this time he managed to keep his balance.

The next advance came before he could collect himself, a low swing at his legs. He sprung into the air, effectively avoiding the attack. At the same times, he brought his table leg crashing down towards the soldier's unprotected back. The guard, off balance from his effort to separate the rebel's feet from the rest of his body, was unable to get out of the way in time. The shaft struck him square between his shoulders, and he dropped to the ground.

Before the rebel could press his advantage, his foe had rolled to the side and staggered to his feet once more. The two combatants eyed each other warily, and began to circle again.

The rebel frowned as he watched his enemy walk, noticing something he hadn't before. The man was _limping_ – and limping _badly_. Apparently, the rebel's earlier attack had injured the man worse than he had thought.

This was _definitely_ to the younger's advantage. If he could strike his foe there again, he might be able to end this battle now. Narrowing his eyes in determination, he braced himself and lunged forward, thrusting his weapon towards the other combatant's abdomen.

His enemy smiled thinly. The boy, obviously an amateur, had left himself wide open. He skillfully twisted around the incoming table leg and drove his blade towards the young rebel's heart.

It was exactly what the rebel had been counting on. He mimicked his rival's twist in a daring escape attempt, positioning himself so that the blade, impossible to evade completely, sliced into his shoulder instead of his heart. Following the downwards drive that this twist had forced upon his body, he dropped to one knee and sent his staff shooting forward, delivering a devastating blow to the man's injured leg.

There was a sickly cracking sound as the joint shattered, sending the stunned victim tumbling to the ground. Before any unlikely retaliation could be mounted, the rebel drew his blaster and grimly shot the man between his eyes.

He stood still, as if frozen with paralysis, staring at the man he had just killed. Slowly, his eyes sifted to take in the other three men, all of them now nothing more than corpses.

A wave of nausea swept over him. His body convulsed, and he retched with revulsion at what he had done.

When his stomach had finally finished ridding itself of the little he'd been able to eat before leaving his apartment, agent M7123, beloved younger brother of the infamous S4913, newest member of the "terrorist" Revolution, rocked back on his heels and sat curled in a ball, shuddering with battleshock.

He had never killed before. The numerous target dummies and holographic simulations – however realistic they might be – didn't count. The targets did not bleed; the simulations didn't have families expecting them to return.

A sharp pain growing in his cheek and shoulder, ignored in the heat of battle, finally forced him to move. He touched his hand to the gash on his cheek, the result of the third guard's rifle, then clamped his hand over the knife wound in his shoulder. Both injuries were deep and were in need of medical attention. He could do nothing about his cheek, however; that would require bandages, and he wouldn't have access to any until he returned home. He didn't even bother to wipe the blood away; its clotting would stop the bleeding better than his sleeve could.

His shoulder, on the other hand, he could mend, at least temporarily. Wincing as he fought against the bile rising once more in his throat, he leaned onto his knees and crawled to the nearest carcass.

It was the fourth guard, his knife still clutched in his now cold hand. He had fallen forward, and he now lay near the card table wreckage, his blood turning into a paste as it mixed with the sawdust. Mokuba averted his eyes from this and tentatively stretched his uninjured arm towards the corpse. He tore a strip of cloth off the guard's uniform and began to clumsily wrap it around his shoulder, creating a makeshift bandage.

When he was finish, he climbed unsteadily to his feet. He stepped around the bodies, staggering drunkenly. When he reached the far wall, he leaned against it, taking deep breaths and trying to calm his nerves. He closed his eyes, shaking his head to clear it. He needed to compose himself if he was to make it through this alive.

He glanced anxiously at his chronometer; it read 3:36. He noted this with numb surprise; he had thought the skirmish had taken longer than that, but when he added the amount of time needed to set the other three charges, his first shot had been fired less than five minutes ago.

He ran through everything that needed to be done, feeling his nerves quiet and his resolve strengthen as he did so. Four bombs had been set: one level down, three to go. The door to the next floor lay right in front of him, leering at him mockingly, while the stairs leading back to freedom were behind him, beyond his reach. He himself stood in a small hallway that served only as a guard post between one level and another.

He had no doubt that as soon as he pressed forward, as soon as he opened the leering door, he would be met with machinegun fire trying to destroy his every particle. The guards on the other side would surely have heard the sounds of the battle, especially the loud, reverberating bang of the second guard's unsilenced gun.

Well, he wasn't going to be used for target practice without putting up a fight.

He walked over to the wreckage in the center of the hall, sliding the tabletop free of the rest of the debris. He ignored the first soldier's body, knowing that if he looked at the corpse his newfound strength would fail.

He propped the wooden board againstthe door and began to reinforce it with the rest of the wood. When he finished, he stepped back to observe his handiwork. It looked frail, unstable, and he highly doubted its capabilities as a shield, bit it was the best he could do. There was nothing else to reinforce it with, save for the four dead soldiers, and at the moment, he would have rather joined them in the afterlife than _look_ at them again, much less _touch_ them.

With a deep breath, he knelt down behind the shelter, braced himself, and stretched the table leg he had dueled the last guard with up to the door release. Mokuba squeezed his eyes shut as the door hissed open to reveal…

…Silence.

Slowly, Mokuba reopened his eyes. What was going on?

Thinking that perhaps his enemies were waiting to ambush him at the first sign of movement, he raised the table leg into the air so that it was above the barricade and cautiously waved it back and forth.

Still nothing.

Had they not heard the gunfire?

Mind reeling in confusion, the young rebel shook his black-haired head. He didn't understand… but he should have expected the unexpected.

He drew his KC957, took a deep breath, and leapt over the barricade.

He landed in a crouch and dropped immediately into a shoulder roll, carrying him away from the doorway. When he came to a stop, the young Revolutionist pressed against the wall, training his blaster on the figures he expected to see below him.

There was no one there. The second level of the enemy supple warehouse was filled with boxes, crates, and sacks – but no people. There was no sign of human life at all.

Still expecting a trap, the rebel cautiously stepped into the center of the room. He was met with no resistance. No one tried to stop him. No shots were fired. The warehouse was as silent as a tomb, and Mokuba didn't like it.

Sighing, the boy began to set the four detonators for this level. A little over five minutes later, he was descending the flight of stairs that led to the third level.

That floor was exactly the same as the one above it. By the time he had depleted his supply of explosives to a single bomb, his head was spinning from confusion. What in the name of the Revolution was going on?

His blaster was still in his hand, as he refused to let his guard down. What if this was all a ruse to lure him into a false sense of security? He was uneasy, and he felt as if unseen eyes were watching him.

A glance at his wrist chronometer put the time at 4:01. He still had fifty-three minutes left before the timer reached zero, more than enough time to set the last explosive and escape. He knew exactly where to place the bomb, too: through the door looming right in front of him. He bit his lower lip – if they were going to ambush him, this would be the place to do it – and opened the door.

An armed task force was what he feared; silence was what he expected. What he got was neither. He openly started at the first human being he'd seen since he had left the corpses behind.

It was a little girl. She couldn't have been a day older than he himself, though it was really hard to tell. While her blond hair, drawn up into pigtails, gave her a puerile appearance, the red-rimmed glasses perched on her nose combined with the slightly arrogant body language to give her the impression of someone much older.

She was smiling at him, a thin smirk that reminded him vaguely of his brother. He voice startled him when she spoke.

"Took you long enough."

Feeling more perplexed by the minute, Mokuba casually pointed his blaster at her. Furrowing his brow, he asked, "Excuse me?"

Glowering at the weapon, she scoffed, "Oh please. I'm no threat and you're too curious to shoot me, anyway."

"Maybe," he replied, and though he kept the gun's nozzle tipped in her direction, inside he acknowledged that she was probably right. "What do you mean, 'took me long enough?'"

"Just what I said," she returned, leaning back in the swivel chair she was seated in.

"You were expecting me?" he asked hesitantly.

"Of course. Everyone else left _ages_ ago."

He stared. Then it clicked: "That guard! The fourth one – I _wondered_ what he was doing! He sent you a message, didn't he?"

"There, you see? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He scowled, annoyed at her attitude. "I'd watch myself, if I were you. You're not the one with the blaster."

She waved a hand. "Empty threats, Rev, empty threats."

His scowl deepened. "Rev" had become an _extremely_ derogatory nickname for a Revolutionist. "You willing to stake your life on that?"

The girl raised her eyebrows. "Yes." She gestured behind him to where he could see numerous computer screens and monitors. "I was watching you. You're no killer."

He flushed. Great – some obnoxious _girl _had seen his battleshock. Ashamed, he ducked his head and mumbled, "Yeah, well…" Suddenly curious about something, he asked, "Why didn't you evacuate with everyone else?"

Her tone turned bitter. "I wanted to see whatever filthy Rev was destroying my life."

Going on the defensive, the rebel shot back, "Yeah? Well what about all the lives your stupid _government_ has destroyed?"

The two children glared at each other, each nursing their own wounds. Finally, the stranger sighed.

"Whatever. Can't do anything about anything, now."

Mokuba opened his mouth to protest – that was what the Revolution was all about! – but she pressed onward.

"You got a name, kid?"

"Kid?" he squeaked. "You can't be a day older 'n me!"

She smirked. "That doesn't change the fact that you're a kid. I was surprised that your Revolution would send someone so young into combat."

He shrugged. "Gotta start somewhere." His eyes shining with enthusiasm, he added, "Just you wait, I'll be as good as my brother someday!"

The girl absently pushed her glasses further up on her nose, raising an eyebrow at him. "Who's your brother, S4913?"

"Of course," was his automatic response. He held back a wince; that was not the type pf information he should be throwing around.

The girl was quiet for a moment. Apparently deciding to ignore this statement, she frowned at him, asking, "So what are young going to do now?"

He looked at her determinedly and freed his last charge. "I'm going to finish what I started. I'm going to set this. Don't try and stop me, either. It'd just be a waste of time. There are fourteen other detonators throughout this place, and nothing you can do can stop them from going off. If you're half as smart as you pretend you are, you'll get out of here_ now_."

They engaged in another glaring match. This time, it was the boy that stopped it.

"Look, just go, okay? Please? I don't want anyone else to die."

"…" The girl stood and walked over to a computer terminal. She glanced over her should at him. "I already know it's too late. That's why everyone left, you know. They guessed about the bombs. They'd have just killed you, if they thought it would do any good. No need to have anyone stay behind and get killed with you, though."

He opened his mouth to reply to this, but before he could, she pressed a button on the computer keyboard, and the machine released a small silver disk.

"Hey!" Mokuba shouted. "I can't let you take that!"

She whirled around and shot him a glare that would have made his brother proud. Calming down, she said, "Relax. This has nothing to do with the government. It's for my own private research. I'm the only one who knows about it." She hesitated, then added, "_Please_."

The raven-haired child fidgeted. He should let her, he knew. Just because she _said_ the government didn't care didn't mean she was telling the truth. But they didn't have time to argue. He spared a glance at the chronometer. He was running out of time.

"Fine," he finally decided. "Now get out of here."

"Thank you." She pulled the disk free, tucked it into her lab coat, and walked to the door. Her hand touched the door release and the silver jaws swung open, but she paused in the doorway, looking back at him.

"You never did tell me your name."

"…M7123."

"No. Not your number. Your name." Seeing him hesitate, she added, "If it makes you feel any better… I'm Rebecca Hawkins."

"…Mokuba. Just Mokuba." He gave her a dry grin. "Not all of us are lucky enough to have surnames."

She smiled. "Okay. Thank you. Don't worry; I won't tell on you."

He returned the smile with one of his own. "Yeah… Thanks. Now get lost… and don't get killed."

"Ditto." With that, she stepped through the doors.

Watching them slide shut behind her, Mokuba shook his black-haired head.

Talk about expecting the unexpected.

* * *

Rebecca Hawkins sighed. She stood on a ridge overlooking the Domino docks, her eyes fixed on warehouse number thirty-three.

She closed them as the building burst into flames, hugging herself as the sound of the explosion washed over her. She hoped, despite herself, that the agent responsible had made it out in time.

She fingered the disk in her pocket. Her grandfather would be interested in what she had learned. It was time for her to return to him.

"I hope your Revolution is worth it, Mokuba," she murmured, and faded into the night.

* * *

Secret agent number S4913 paced back and forth across the apartment flat. He was worried; Mokuba should have been back by now.

He looked at the chronometer on the wall, double-checked it against his wrist chronometer, and glanced at the door.

Seto stopped his pacing, closing his eyes and rubbing them with his fingers. He was nearing frantic now, but he mustn't lose control. If he panicked and set out after his brother, their superiors wouldn't be satisfied that the boy could take care of himself.

He stalked over to the cabinet and threw open the door. Reaching inside, he drew forth a single chess piece.

The rook.

His fist clenched around it. If his baby brother had been killed, so help him, he'd make them pay. Whether "them" would be the government for killing him or the Revolution for putting him in a situation to be killed remained to be seen.

Suddenly, he stiffened. Someone was at the door. The rook fell from his hand as Mokuba stepped into the room.

Relief washed over the young rebel, and he took a moment to collect himself before striding over to meet the boy.

"How did it go?" he asked as gently as he could, his eyes taking in the bloodied cheek and patched-up shoulder.

The ten-year-old looked up at him with wide grey eyes, remembering the men he had killed that day. With a strangled sob, he fell into his brother's embrace, buried his face in the older boy's shoulder, and cried.

* * *

A/N: No, I don't hate Mokuba. I just like making life difficult for him. Shoot me.

Actually, please don't. The return of our power when I was halfway through was punishment enough. :(

And so, Rebecca-chan makes her (short) appearance! As far as I know, she is about three years younger than Mokuba, but this is AU, so they're the same age here. Again, this will have no relevance on this story, but it was interesting. Oh, and just for my information, does anyone know her birthday?

Mwa. Puerile. Watch me use my Latin class to improve my vocabulary. (maniacal cackle)

Review, or my ninjas will pay you a visit.


	6. Summoned

Disclaimer: Still no luck. Still not mine. Damn ninjas are taking too long…

A/N: Yes, I know. Still no sign of Noa. I seem to have misplaced him… No, just kidding. He'll be introduced in a few. ;)

A few more minor characters (At least, I think they shall be minor. I'm not sure who's going to have a big impact on the story other than the Kaibas. I think some of them will, though.) are introduced in this chapter. It should be easy to guess who they are but if you want to double-check, you could always ask… in a review… (innocent blink)

* * *

_Six months later_…

It was a standard summons.

Seto wasn't sure why it made him so uneasy. He frowned down at it, rereading the stark black letters that contrasted so sharply with the crisp white of the page. The message, encoded so that no government spy would know what it said, was brief and to the point. Roughly translated, it read:

_Agents S4913 and M7123 to report to HQ. Mission details to be discussed._

_Burn this message._

Three simple sentences, identical to dozens of others sent to this same apartment, slid under the door like hundreds before it.

There was nothing different about it. There was nothing strange, no reason for him to be so perturbed.

But as he watched the tiny flame from his handheld lighter lick away at the paper, he knew one thing for sure.

He had a bad feeling about this. A _very_ bad feeling.

* * *

_The two agents ran through the sewer. They were nearing their destination, and each was looking forward to leaving the stench of raw sewage behind._

_The tunnel ended abruptly as they came to the heavy steel door that led into the main part of the building. The black-haired agent knelt down and pried open a control panel, his fingers hurriedly working to hotwire the lock._

"_Hurry up, will you?" his brown-haired companion groaned._

"_Hey, I'm going as fast as I can!" was the aggravated reply. The agent winced as his hand brushed an exposed wire, shaking the shocked limb and hastily sucking on his stung finger. He returned his partner's glare, flipped his long hair over his shoulder, and returned to his work._

_Half a minute later, he leapt to his feet as the door slid open, joining his partner with a drawn blaster._

…_Only to be met with a dozen armed enemy soldiers on the other side._

_The brown-haired agent grinned. "Oh, uh… Don't mind us, we're just your friendly local sewer monsters…_

The assorted men and women surrounding the table burst into laugher. The object of their entertainment smirked and tool another swig of his drink. "So, D and I ducked back behind the door–"

"D and _I_, T?" the narrator's partner interjected. D4447 leaned back in his chair, his green eyes dancing with mischief. "Funny, _I_ seem to recall something about me needing to shove you out of the way of getting a dozen new holes in your head."

"Aw, shuddup, D" T4501 flushed slightly as his audience laughed once again. "Who's the one tellin' this story, anyway?"

D4447 held up his hands innocently. "Just saying."

T4501 scowled sulkily, swallowing another mouthful of alcohol, and pressed on. "So, I said to D, 'You take the six on the left, and I'll handle the six on the right, and we'll meet in the middle. And so…'"

Mokuba chuckled quietly from his seat in the corner of the room. He loved to come down here to listen to the stories the more experienced Revolutionists told. He sipped thoughtfully at his own drink – lemonade, for though any registered agent could technically order any kind of drink they wanted, Seto had specifically told him to stick to non-intoxicating beverages. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Like he'd even _want _to have anything else. He didn't see what was so attractive about drinking fermented fruit and grain products.

A lot had happened to the two brothers in the past half-year. They'd gone on numerous missions, none of which were as strange as his encounter with young Rebecca Hawkins.

He gave a wry smile as he thought of the girl. He hadn't told anyone – not even Seto – about what had happened. He wasn't sure what the consequences of letting an enemy leave alive with an unknown disk would be, and he didn't want to find out.

He had watched the news anxiously for weeks after the mission, terrified that the girl would leak his name to the press and thus to his enemies, but there had been nothing. The police hadn't even figured out his number yet, or at least if they had, they weren't telling anyone.

He was getting better at these missions. With Seto's guidance, his skills and confidence had greatly improved. The older agent had shown him many tricks of the trade that had been neglected in his education, numerous ways to help make assignments easier – and to keep him alive.

His battleshock had gotten better, as well. Seto barely had to say anything to keep him from freezing up now. That didn't help his nightmares, but it was a start.

At least now he understood why his brother hated sleeping so much.

Seto had changed, as well, though his had been more physical than mental. He had added another inch onto his already impressive height, and though it finally appearedas ifhe'd stopped growing, Mokuba despaired that he'd ever catch up.

They had spent the teenager's sixteenth birthday performing a raid on an enemy naval vase. Mokuba would have thought that his brother would be upset about this, but if he had been, he hid it well. They had destroyed thirteen submarines, twenty-four enemy battleships, and three critical weapons shipments, subsequently killing over seven hundred men. They had come home to their apartment that night to be greeted by cupcakes smuggled up from the supply room, hot showers, and another night of nightmares.

Still, the rebel boy mused as he sipped at his drink again, it wasn't all bad. The other agents had been positively friendly, welcoming the newest member of their team with enthusiasm that was generally reserved for their work,

And at least he had Seto with him. Mokuba didn't think he would have been able to handle this without his brother's lifeline.

Speaking of his brother… The black haired boy looked up as if with a sixth sense in time to see the infamous teenager slip quietly into the casino.

Seto hated attention, and tried to avoid places like this as often as possible. The reason soon became clear, for despite the agent's ability to slip in and out of a government compound without being caught, he was quickly noticed in the crowded casino.

A rustle went through the crowd at the little-seen agent's appearance. Heads turned, following the boy's path across the room. The volume had dropped several levels, and the scrape of D4447's chair as he rose was clearly heard by all. Seto scowled as the black haired gambler hailed him.

"S4913! Well, this _is_ an honor! Tell me, what brings you to our _humble_ corner of the Revolution?"

Seto's eyes narrowed. "None of your concern."

Mokuba's hands tightened around his glass. The other agent was trying to start a fight, he was sure. His brother held the Revolutionist's respect, but his antisocial attitude had earned him no friends.

"Really, S4913, you should swing by more often! I'm sure you have some _wonderful_ stories to tell."

Seto didn't answer, pushing past the green eyed agent on his way to his brother's table.

Another agent, a blonde by the number of J5030, called out, "What's de matter, S4913? Too good for de likes of us?"

Seto stopped, turning to face the blonde. He said simply, "If I didn't need to be on your sister's good side right now, I'd kill you where you stand." He ignored the other agent's indignant sputtering and pressed on once again.

In an effort to ease the building tension in the room, the bartender, a dirty old man that made Mokuba wonder how on Earth this establishment had managed to pass the Revolution's health regulations, hesitantly spoke up. "Can I offer you something to drink, S4913? On the h…" He trailed off, shivering at the icy glare that was shot in his direction.

"Spare me," Seto sneered, his voice cold. He had reached Mokuba's table by now, and the small boy looked up at him in anticipation at his next words. "I'm here on business."

The brunette slid into the chair beside his brother, turning to him and opening his mouth as if to speak. He then frowned, turning to glare at the rest of the bar. "Well?"

Slowly, the men and women scattered though the tavern turned back to their conversations and their drinks. D4447 returned to his seat; J5030 gave one last glare before turning away to face the tri-colored hair of his partner; T4501 picked up his narration, albeit a little less enthusiastically.

"You know, big brother, you could at least _try_ to be more friendly," Mokuba chastised him when the noise had risen to a level where he could speak without having to worry about any eavesdroppers.

"Nonsense," was the dismissive reply.

Mokuba shook his head in exasperation, changing the subject. "Why do you need to be on J's sister's good side?"

"You'll see."

The boy sighed. "You said something about business?"

"We've been summoned."

"_Again_? That's the fifth time this month!"

"The war waits for no one, little brother."

Mokuba sighed again. "How much more time do we have?" Summons were to be answered within three hours after notification, no exceptions. Tardiness was a black mark in an agent's record. The two brothers as yet had no black marks, and they had no desire to acquire any.

Seto glanced at his chronometer. "Only an hour. It took me a while to find you. Do you come here often?"

"Not really." He left out that he might sojourn here more if he had the time.

"Good." Ice blue eyes glared around the room.

"…You know, they're really _not_ that bad."

Seto snorted. "Finish your drink. We don't want to be late."


	7. The One–Eyed Horse

Disclaimer: Once more following the advice of my very wise friend, I checked in on my ninjas in law school. Dang it! Kazuki Takahashi's recruitment force got to them first. I only have a few left. I think I shall send them to a music school, if only because I've always wanted to get a sing-a-gram from a ninja. Though I'm not sure how that will help me to get the rights to _Yu Gi Oh!_; right now, it's not looking too good for that.

A/N: Well, merry early-Christmas to you all! Or if you are Jewish, happy belated Hanukah! Of if you celebrate something else, happy that! T'is the season for giving and all that – here's my present to you. Another chapter.

...Well, don't all start clapping at once... Anyway, this is _way_ shorter than I wanted, but it just seemed like such a _good_ place to end. (passes out the cocoa) Enjoy!

* * *

Mokuba stopped to observe himself quickly in the mirror, making sure that his appearance was presentable for the upcoming meeting with Sergeant Major Kerrick. Hands and face: washed. Uniform: clean and freshly pressed. Hair: brushed and pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. He winced at that; he usually didn't bother to tie it back, and he still didn't have the hang of tidying it to please his superiors.

There was a knock on the bathroom door behind him, and Seto stepped into the room. "Ready to go?" he asked.

"Almost," the boy muttered. He scowled and pulled the hair tie out. "Can you...?"

"You're never going to get better if I'm always doing it for you," the older boy chided as he took the tie and gathered the messy raven locks into a much neater ponytail.

Mokuba grumbled an incoherent response, then nodded his thanks. "_Now_ I'm ready."

Without another word, the two rebels slipped out of their apartment and made their way to the Domino City Revolution Headquarters.

There were silent as they left the building, silent as they passed through the hidden entrance to the underground, abandoned subway tracks that connected the various branches of the Revolution, silent as they walked down the unused tracks. No words were needed. Each knew what the other was feeling.

Mokuba sensed his brother's tension, something that few would be able to detect. But he had known the other boy for too long; there were few things they could hide from each other. Seto was worried about something, and the younger had no idea what.

Seto, for his part, knew about his brother's confusion, but he said nothing to enlighten the small boy. It was only a feeling, after all. It was probably nothing. There was no need to worry him unnecessarily.

Mokuba bit his lower lip and watched the older boy out of the corner of his eyes, wondering if he should say something. Finally making up his mind, he opened his mouth to speak. "Se–"

He bit off his brother's name upon noticing that the teenager had stopped, one hand resting on a ladder. They had reached the entrance to the Revolution's headquarters. "Big brother," he finished lamely, not daring to speak the agent's name in a place where the walls had ears.

"Yes?" was the deceivingly calm reply.

"...No. It's nothing." The boy hopped off of the deactivated third rail, which he been tightrope walking, and scrambled up the ladder, careful not to step on his brother's hand, which still rested on one rung.

He didn't hear the older boy's quiet murmur has he followed him.

"I hope so."

* * *

Mokuba could remember the first time he had walked these halls, back six months before when he had first officially joined the Domino task force. He had been amazed at how high the security was. They had to pass through a checkpoint before reaching their goal; armed guards triple-checked their registration, confiscated their weapons, and escorted them to where they needed to go. This seemed a bit overkill to Mokuba.

He had voiced this opinion to Seto once, shortly after he returned from his first mission. Seto had raised an eyebrow at him.

"You're not paranoid enough, kid," he had been informed. "If anything, we should tighten the security up."

He understood better now, though that didn't stop his annoyance. Ensuring the safety of the Revolution's commanders was top priority – without their leaders they would flounder and die like a chicken without its head.

Still, as their escort led them down a long hallway towards a set of large doors, Mokuba couldn't help but feel a customary twinge of unease. He hated having his defenses removed.

Seto was even less pleased. Though he had been through the process hundreds of times before, he would never get used to being unarmed. The young rebel felt naked and unprotected without the comforting weight of the firearm at his hip. They had even taken the knife strapped to his leg and the small backup hand gun that fit into a holster at his forearm, both of which were hidden from the casual eye.

Mokuba frowned, biting his lip anxiously. Was it just him, or was there even more security here than usual? He glanced at Seto, opening his mouth to ask if the more experienced agent had noticed anything, and snapped it shut just as quickly. They had reached their destination.

This was it: the point of no return. The guards faded away behind them as Mokuba wiped suddenly sweaty hands on his pants, careful not to wrinkle the stiff fabric. He swallowed and looked up at his brother, the rocks that had settled in his stomach turning over as if they were tumbling down a hill. The grim determination on the older agent's face was hardly reassuring. The raven-haired boy swallowed again. He hated meeting with Kerrick.

"Ready?" he asked in a voice that was smaller than he would have liked.

Seto gave him a curt nod. He looked at the chronometer – being early was almost as bad as tardiness – and pressed a button on the wall panel next to the doors.

Somewhere inside, a bell rang. The young agents couldn't hear it sound, but it alerted the room's inhabitants to their presence. The boys could feel the invisible eye of a hidden security camera burning into them as it identified them.

Mokuba focused his attention on the doors, resisting the urge to fidget. They were huge, made of oak instead of steel. They always fascinated the ten-year-old, for he had never seen anything like them; he always took this time to study them.

The grains in the polished wood made strange patterns that danced around the entranceway's sole decoration: a rearing winged horse, the blazon of the Revolution, was carved proudly into the massive doors.

A single eye was set into the mythological creature's head. Mokuba had long since stopped jumping when, with a whirring buzz followed by a mechanical click, the eye sprung to life. A small camera that was the eye's pupil zoomed in on their faces as a sharp voice demanded, "Identify yourselves."

"Special Operations agents S4913 and M7123 reporting for assignment on order of Sergeant Major Kerrick," Seto replied in a crisp, no-nonsense tone of voice.

"Identification cards required," the voice chimed. The two agents swiped their I.D. cards in a slot which had suddenly revealed itself, Mokuba barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes at his superiors' paranoia.

"Identifications confirmed. Entry granted."

Slowly, the doors creaked open, the emblem engraved upon them splitting in two as they swung outwards. Two uniformed soldiers held them open, saluting the two agents who walked briskly inside.

The doors were closed behind them and the door wardens stood at silent attention as the brothers began to proceed into the dimly-lit command center. Save for the wardens, who were both deaf and mute, that they could be present to guard the officials and not overhear confidential material, the room appeared to be empty.

Suddenly, a voice rang out through the large room, echoing around them. "S4913! How _marvelous_ to see you again!"

Mokuba stopped short that the unfamiliar voice – that wasn't Kerrick. He was astonished to see Seto freeze as well. Judging from how stiff the older boy was standing, Seto recognized whoever it was... and he _wasn't_ pleased.

Footsteps approached them and Mokuba unconsciously drew closer to his brother. A figure stepped out of the gloom, a large smile that did nothing to ease Mokuba's nerves fixed gaily on his face.

"And you must be M7123!" the man continued, as if they were old friends who hadn't seen each other in years. Mokuba half expected the man to add on a "My, you _have_ grown," and come forward to pinch his cheeks like an aunt that he had never had. He pressed even closer to his brother's assertive presence.

"I've been looking forward to speaking with you two," the stranger said, finally stepping into the light. "I do hope you're ready to tackle a new assignment."

Mokuba couldn't help but gape. He had never seen this man in the flesh before, but he'd been showed pictures. The long silver hair that partially covered the left eye... the mechanical inset that had replaced that eye after some freak accident had destroyed it... the red uniform that only the highest of high-ranking officers were allowed to don... There was only one man who could fit that description.

_But that doesn't make sense!_ His mind reeled in confusion. _What would General Pegasus be doing in _Domino_? We're about as far from the capital as you can get!_

_Unless..._ A sudden though struck him, a stomach-churning, heart-stopping thought that made his blood run cold.

His worse fears were fulfilled as the silver-haired man continued. "We have a _special_ job for you this time."

This was bad. This was very bad indeed.


	8. Red

Disclaimer: They're Kazuki Takahashi's toys. I'm just playing with them.

A/N: I had to jump through rings of fire to get this to you tonight. Rings that included, but were not limited to, Writer's Block like you can't imagine, angry parents, toothbrushes, and Yahoo!. (In case you don't know,Yahoo! is a ring of fire in and of itself. If you're looking for a new e-mail account, don't chose Yahoo!. I here g-mail's very good.)

A special thanks for this chapter goes out to Generic Hero. Actually, forget "special thanks" – you get more thank just fifty-six percent, mate. I'd still have all of six sentences written without your help. Folks, not only did he help me with character interaction, but when my serious lack of science fiction gadget knowledge started to hurt me, he helped me think of what to do, and then he betaed it to make sure I got it right. You may all commence sacrificing plot bunnies in his honor.

* * *

"I don't understand, big brother. The capital? I thought _we_ had control of the capital!" 

"Not our capital. _Theirs_."

"The government's?"

"Yes. Tokyo, not Kyoto."

Mokuba struggled to keep pace with his brother's long, ground-eating strides as he absorbed this. Revolutionary training didn't include much history or politics; only those related to the Revolution. It had never occurred to him that there might be _two _capitals, but now that he thought about it, it made sense. You couldn't exactly have the government and their seditious enemies working next door to each other.

"And that's why this is so dangerous?"

Seto nodded curtly, neither turning around to look at the boy nor slowing his pace. "Security going to be tighter than anything we've ever faced. We'll be lucky to make it out of this alive."

Mokuba paled. He opened his mouth to inquire further and walked right into his brother, who had halted abruptly a pace in front of him. The collision made Mokuba lose his balance; he wobbled and almost fell. Seto's hand automatically shot out and steadied the younger boy as he looked around them.

Seto had led the way to the Supplies Department. Mokuba mentally kicked himself for not figuring that out earlier; only a fool went on even the most run of the mill assignment without stocking up, and this...

While he had been orienting himself, Seto had entered a keycode into the door in front of them. It swung open with a soft _whoosh_ and a chime that announced their presence.

A friendly voice chirped a greeting as they stepped inside. "Back again, you guys? They're working you pretty hard, aren't they?"

Mokuba returned the girl's smile. "Yeah, well, you know. There's a war going on, after all."

The girl shook her head. Her number, if the agent recalled correctly, was S6227, but everyone called her "Red" after her flaming auburn hair. Three years older than he, she was the assistant manager of this department. She was also J5030's younger sister. Remembering Seto's earlier retort to the hot headed blond, Mokuba felt understanding dawn.

Red was speaking again. "Tell that to my shippers. There's so many embargos and labor shortages going on right now that it's getting harder and harder to keep stocked." She grinned. "There's a war going on, after all."

Mokuba laughed, glancing at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Seto hadn't even cracked a grin at the banter, his face as stoic as it had been before, but that wasn't unusual. He rarely smiled even when they were alone.

"So, guys, what's the mission this time?" Red asked excitedly, her eyes brimming with curiosity.

"That's classified, Red." Seto spoke for the first time, his tone patronizingly brusque. "You know better."

Mokuba, forever amused that even his stringent brother used the girl's nickname, joked, "Yeah, we could tell you, but then we'd have to kill you."

Red grinned, but Seto didn't look pleased. "Don't joke about things like that."

The young boy's eyes widened. "Sorry."

"That's all right, M; I know what you meant." Her manner turned business-like. "What can I get for you?"

She and Seto began haggling for equipment: a replacement for Mokuba's grappling hook, which they had been forced to leave behind on their last mission; an extra one hundred meters worth of rope; more explosives... The list went on, and Mokuba let his attention drift. Their voices faded into a vague murmur as he wandered away, looking at the various goods and equipment on display. Most had to do with the war: weapons, explosives, armor, and other devices to help agents stay alive. More dangerous items were stored on the lower floors.

A section near the back, however, contained household items that were hard to attain anywhere else, such as the maple syrup Seto had gotten on Mokuba's birthday. The boy was always filled with longing whenever he was here. He knew that there was once a time, long ago, when there had been enough for everyone to indulge in luxuries. He wondered what that felt like. He and his brother were fairly well off; they had their own apartment, for one, and such a renowned agent as S4913 had a decent enough salary. Still, even when they had money to spend, there was rarely anything to buy.

As he neared his favorite aisle in the section, Mokuba reached inside his pocket, his fingers brushing a battered leather pouch. Three gold coins, each engraved with a large KC, were enclosed inside. Mokuba had been saving since his first paycheck to have this much, and he knew exactly what he wanted to buy with them.

There it was. With a big smile on his face, the young boy stretched an eager hand up to an almost empty shelf and pulled down a small bar of chocolate.

He gazed at his prize happily. Red had given him a piece of chocolate, free of charge, the first time he had met her, and he had been determined to get his hands on more ever since. His mouth watered as he recalled how the sweet candy had dissolved in his mouth, and with a spring in his step he returned to where Red and Seto were haggling.

He had taken a roundabout route through the warehouse the first time, allowing himself to fantasize about the contents of the shelves, but he now cut through a different part of the store, taking the most direct path back in his impatience to make his purchase.

That was how he saw it.

It was on display in a glass case that was taller than he was. Made of what looked like black leather, the suit of what could only be armor sparked his curiosity. He approached it, pressing his nose to the glass and allowing his eyes to feast on what was probably the most expensive thing in the department, if not the entire rebellion.

Closer inspection revealed that the material was not, in fact, leather, nor was it even truly black. It seemed impossible to try to define it, however; his eyes refused to focus on it, and he became dizzy when he even tried.

Stepping back once more, he tilted his head back and forth, taking in the entire picture. Gloves, slightly bulky looking boots, even a helmet, all made of the same ethereal fabric... Whatever this was, it wasn't like anything he'd ever seen or even heard of before. A flutter of excitement in his stomach told him that whatever agent was lucky enough to wear this armor would be fully protected.

Mokuba shivered as his brother's earlier words came back to haunt him. _We'll be lucky to make it out of this alive..._ Oh, what he wouldn't give to have better protection on such a dangerous mission!

Wait a minute... Now _that_ was an idea.

"Big brother!" he called, feeling more excited with each passing second. "Big brother, _come quick_! You _gotta_ see this!"

Seto appeared thirty seconds later, melting out of the shadows in a way that Mokuba had never quite been able to reproduce. "What's the matter?" he asked, hand hovering over the blaster that the guards had reluctantly returned to him after leaving the command center. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Mokuba answered sheepishly. He should have known better than to yell like that. Pointing at the suit, he squeaked, "Look!"

Red came up behind them as Seto studied the suit. "Like it?" she asked, a hint of pride in her tone. "It came in with the last shipment."

"What is it?" Seto inquired, sounding interested in spite of himself.

"Other than really cool?" Mokuba added, his eyes still fixed on the armor.

"It's a prototype," Red explained, coming forward to stand beside the case. She placed an arm on it, looking like a game show hostess showing off the grand prize. "They'd like to make it standard edition; it'll save a lot of agent's lives if they do. Unfortunately, that's going to take more funding than we're ever going to have, so–"

"What kind of material is this?" Seto interrupted. "It looks almost like leather, but..." he trailed off, blinking. Apparently, Mokuba hadn't been imagining the nauseating effect.

"It's not. It's a new type of material; Engineering just came out with it."

"Engineering develops types of fabric?" Mokuba blinked in confusion.

"Ridiculous," Seto said, shaking his head. "Engineering would only be involved if it were something important. Some kind of armor, probably."

Mokuba opened his mouth in indignation – he _knew_ it was armor! – but Red interrupted him by chirping, "Stronger than Kevlar. More flexible, too."

Seto nodded. "Impressive. What else does it do?"

"See for yourself." She pulled out a pamphlet from her white lab coat and handed it to him.

Fidgeting, Mokuba alternated between further captivation with the suit and studying his brother's face as the older agent skimmed the information. Seeing his eyebrows rise, a sure sign that he was impressed, the boy's own interest leapt even higher.

Seto finally finished his investigation and handed the pamphlet back to Red. "Not bad," he admitted, and the girl beamed. "How many do you have?"

Mokuba froze. Was Seto thinking what he _thought_ he was thinking?

"Three," was Red's answer.

"What sizes?"

"One size fits all."

"Excellent. We'll take two."

_Yes!_

But Red was shaking her head.

"What's wrong?" Seto asked sharply.

"You don't have enough. Money, that is."

Mokuba's heart plummeted as Seto frowned. "Then... why did you show it to us?"

"Well I... I mean, you asked, and..." She was beginning to sound upset.

"...Very well. M7123, come. We're leaving."

Mokuba's fists clenched in disappointment, and it was only then that he remembered the now mushy chocolate bar. "Wait!" he shouted after his disappearing brother.

Seto stopped and looked back at him. "Yes?"

Turning to Red, Mokuba pulled the pouch from his pocket. Freeing his savings, he held them out to her. "If... if I put this back," he waved the chocolate, "and give you this, then will we have enough?"

Red gazed at the child so naïvely making his meager offering and felt a great swell of pity. "Oh... No, Mokuba, you keep the chocolate, okay? On me."

The boy frowned. "No, I want to pay for it myself."

"Then here." Understanding his determination, Red accepted his money and pressed the chocolate back towards him. Pocketing the coins, she faced Seto.

"Look, S4913... I might be able to arrange for you to get it at a discount..." She trailed off at the look on his face.

"We don't need charity, Red," the agent snapped. "Not from you, not from anyone. M7123, come. We're leaving."

"No, S4913, wait!" Red lunged forward and grabbed his arm, pulling him back. Seto glared at her; with a shudder, she released him.

"It's a prototype," she mumbled, eyes on the floor. "It hasn't been tested in the field yet, just in simulations. They'll be pleased to have someone like you test it out. Let me see what I can do." Meeting his eyes, she added, "Please."

Seto looked from her, to his brother, to the suit, and back to Mokuba, two almost primal instincts waging war inside him. On the one, his pride refused to let him accept her help; on the other was the one rule he'd made his priority ever since their parents had been killed:

Protect Mokuba. This new armor would decrease his brother's risk of injury by, according to the pamphlet, fifty-nine percent.

Besides... he was quite eager to try it out for himself.

His decision reached, he hesitated only a moment more before answering her plea. "...We leave at dawn tomorrow. Let us know by then."

Red nodded. "I will."

As they left the Supplies Department, they heard her call after them, "And guys...? Good luck!"

Mokuba swallowed a piece of chocolate that had suddenly turned to ash in his mouth. He carefully wrapped and pocketed the rest to save for later, whispering softly back to he. "Thanks..."

He had the terrible feeling that they were going to need it.

* * *

A/N: Today's my birthday. It's in the handbook that you have to review people on their birthdays, see? (holds out hands) 


End file.
